


And at the hour of our death

by stepantrofimovic



Series: Fidelis et Fortis [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rescue Missions, Temporary Character Death, Torture, guys it's been a long time, i feel like i forgot how to tag, is it clear this is my main kink by now or
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21749491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: “Then why am I alive?”“Because,” Vargas answers, and Jean doesn’t think of himself as a man to be easily scared, but the Spaniard’s voice chills him to the bone, “if I’m not getting the Cardinal’s life out of this, the least we can aim for is some excellent leverage, and in light of recent events, it turns out you can provide just that. Now, it’s only a matter of how soon we can put it to use, and I’m sure you will help us find out.”
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Series: Fidelis et Fortis [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/525082
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	And at the hour of our death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grabmotte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/gifts).

> I... uh. I don't know how to say this, but I apparently disappeared from fandom (for reasons mostly related to writing a PhD) while sitting on almost 7000 words of finished Trevilieu fanfiction. I'm _extremely_ sorry, people.
> 
> This was a prompt by **tatzelwyrm**, bless her. "Another trevilieu prompt: you know how we always have richelieu be sick in fic, or how Treville has to protect/rescue him a lot? Let's have a role reversal. :D"
> 
> In other news, I never meant to write a reverse Spanish prison AU, but here we are. The setup owes a lot to tatzelwyrm’s own masterpiece [The Circle of Traitors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7408498/chapters/16827076), of course.

“Ah, I was almost forgetting. The cook made almond biscuits today. I think he is under the impression that I will try some.”

Richelieu’s face plainly shows his disdain as he points at the silver tray sitting on one of the smaller tables, half buried under something that looks like a military supply record. The biscuits themselves, as Treville sees when he goes to retrieve them, are shaped like small lozenges with rounded corners, and smell positively delicious. The tray is, of course, untouched.

Armand’s pained grimace when Treville nudges the biscuits towards him explains why. To Jean, it’s just another reminder that Armand’s health has taken a turn for the worse over the past few weeks. His headaches are taking a toll, to the point that he can barely eat or sleep, and he’s coughing up blood more often. No one at Court is supposed to know, but the rumours spread fast, and talk about the Cardinal’s succession has already started.

Treville refuses to think about it, but he’s been visiting more often, and he knows Armand must have noticed.

Still, if anything can entice Armand to break his fast, it’s always been sweets. And almond biscuits are among his favourites, even if he doesn’t indulge in them so often. For all these reasons, Jean can’t help but frown at his current refusal to even try them.

“It’s all right,” Armand smiles, as if trying to soothe Jean’s incipient sour mood. “You should at least try some, since you’re here. I’ll keep you company,” he adds, lifting a cup of the herbal tea that is currently the only thing he drinks, in addition to whatever concoction his physician is giving him.

Jean’s gloomy mood is very much not lifted, despite Armand’s attempt, but he still takes two biscuits to avoid upsetting him. God knows Armand doesn’t need Jean to argue with him over such trivial things on top of everything else – and that, right there, is the clearest sign that something is wrong, that he’s been looking for ways _not_ to bother Armand.

The pastries, at least, are delicious, the crumbly texture of the first bite giving way to the sweet stickiness of almonds and honey not a moment too early. And Richelieu seems to be doing his best to make him forget how worn and frail he looks by engaging in his most spirited conversation. Treville has just asked him for news of his niece, a topic he knows he will happily talk about for hours, when the pain starts.

For the first minute or so, he dismisses it as nothing, a random cramp, or perhaps his stomach acting up. He’s way past his prime himself, after all, and this sort of thing doesn’t happen all that rarely any more. Still, he must have paled a little, because Armand pauses mid-sentence and asks, “Jean? Are you all right?”

He wants to answer in the affirmative, but his insides are suddenly filled with shards of glass. He can’t speak. He can’t _breathe_, he realises a second later, as he starts to cough, his throat spasming uncontrollably. He can taste blood at the back of his tongue, can feel it dribbling from his mouth as he keeps coughing.

He must have lost track of what the rest of his body was doing for a moment, too focused on the agony tearing up his lungs, because suddenly he’s lying on the floor, and a pair of shaking hands is pushing him to roll over on his side. Trying to prevent him from choking on his own blood, he realises. Still, he struggles against the touch – it’s better than giving up, at least, better than admitting he’s losing control of his own body, and fast.

He can hear Armand shouting for help, somewhere in the distance. Jean wants to look at him, needs to. He’s often wondered which of them would die first – the dangers in both of their lives never allowing him to make a solid prediction, despite all his concerns over Armand’s health –, but since it seems it’s going to be him, after all, he wants the last thing he sees to be Armand’s face. Considering that fate, against all odds, has conspired to have the two of them in the same room as the moment comes, Jean thinks he’s earned this one thing, at least.

He seems to have run out of luck with fate, however, because he slides into darkness too soon.

***

The first sensations come from inside his body. His head is pounding irregularly, and his lungs and stomach feel like they’re filled with nails. The pain is sharp, but not unfamiliar or surprising. He files that away for further consideration.

He is vaguely aware that there must be other parts to his body, but he’s not fully conscious of them yet.

Then, at once, all the sensations come rushing in. He’s lying on something hard. There’s sunlight falling on his face – he could feel its warmth before, he realises, but now he can see it, a red haze pressing down on his closed eyelids. His mouth feels fuzzy, as if he hasn’t opened it in ages, but there’s a bitter, unfamiliar aftertaste on his tongue, something herbal and disgusting.

He’s alive. This last thought feels out of place, somehow. Wrong.

This feeling of incongruity is enough to jolt his memories back to life. He’s been poisoned. He has _died_, in Armand’s arms, of all damned overdramatic settings.

And now he’s alive.

“He’s awake.”

It takes him a moment to understand that these last words have been spoken outside of his own head. There’s someone else in the room with him – two people, at least, one of whom has just spoken up.

Just processing all this leaves him exhausted. Dying, he guesses, takes its toll out of you.

He hears movement at his side, before someone’s hand lands on his face. He flinches away instinctively, but another hand slips in at the back of his head, holding him still. Searching fingers pry open his eyelids, and he can feel his pupils contract suddenly against the harsh light. As soon as the unkind touch relents, he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Do you want to question him now?” the same voice as before asks from next to Jean’s head. He must be the one who’s just touched him.

“Later.” Someone else, farther away from him. The faintly accented French feels familiar. “Let him rest for now. Then we’ll see how he can prove useful.”

Jean doesn’t want to rest. He wants to force his eyes open again, find out where he is and how he can be alive and what kind of concoction it is that he’s still tasting at the back of his throat. But he’s tired, and the red haze of the sun against his closed eyelids feels like an unbearable weight, dragging him down, until there’s no light anymore.

***

He wakes up again after a few hours, judging from the way the light has moved from where it fell across his face. Then, again, it might be a different day, for all he knows. A different day in which he is, mysteriously, still alive.

He remembers that, at least.

Either way, the pain in his chest and abdomen has somehow subsided, and for that he is grateful. He can also finally open his eyes to look around without the sunlight forcing them shut again.

The room he’s in looks bare, apart from whatever sort of uncomfortable bed or cot he’s currently lying on, a bucket in a corner, the reason for which is not difficult to guess, and a couple of unoccupied chairs, one closer to the bed and the other resting against the wall. Everything around him screams holding cell, even if it weren’t for the steel bars encasing the only window, the one that’s letting the sunlight in. At least they seem to be above ground. Jean was not exactly looking forward to being thrown into some mouldy dungeon.

Then, again, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to anything, considering that he expected to be, you know, _dead_.

He tries to move, only to find out that he’s shackled to the bed hands and feet. _Wonderful._ Having to ask his jailers to let him up whenever he needs to relieve himself will be just one of many delightful things, he’s sure.

Speaking of jailers. The sound of a door opening on the opposite side of the bed. Whoever was in the room with him must have gone to fetch someone as soon as he started waking up. Or they woke him up. He’s not sure he can trust his brain to remember everything clearly, not yet.

His last clear memory is of Armand’s panicked voice begging him to stay awake, the feeling of Armand crouching over him as he went against his orders for the last time in his life.

He pushes it away. No need to have Armand’s name show up unbidden on his lips as soon as whoever captured him decides to torture him.

He knows there are people in the room by now, but he hasn’t turned his head yet, unwilling to give them satisfaction. Still, he can hear footsteps drawing closer, and he has to fight the urge to turn around, to avoid having enemies out of his sight.

“My dear Captain,” a familiar voice says, in the same light Spanish accent as before – whenever that was. “After the pains we have gone through to have you here, you could at least do me the favour of looking my way.”

And just like that, Treville remembers who the voice belongs to. He doesn’t need to turn around to know that the man standing at his back is none else than the Spanish ambassador himself. He does anyway, only for his eyes to confirm what he’d already guessed.

Vargas is standing in front of him, his crotch almost level with Jean’s head on the bed, he notes with a healthy dose of distaste. A glance upwards reveals a tense look on his face. For a moment, Treville is puzzled. He still doesn’t know what’s happening, but he was expecting smugness, even triumph.

Then his brain catches up to Vargas’ actual words. “You wanted me here?” he asks, hating the way his voice inevitably comes out raspy. The effort to speak proves too much for his lungs, however, and he spends the next few minutes coughing and writhing in pain as much as his restraints will allow him to, trying to wrestle his body back under control.

As soon as he’s finished, he looks up at Vargas again, through eyelashes clumping with unshed tears. This time, the Spanish ambassador is smiling.

“Believe me, Captain,” he says, his voice dripping with a sickly sweetness, “your presence here comes after a respectable amount of effort on our part. Though I have to admit that this wasn’t exactly –” and here his expression sours all of a sudden, his eyes flashing dangerously – “the intended outcome of our little plan.”

Jean is tired enough that he almost makes a fool of himself and asks _what plan?_ It’s obvious, though, even through the haze of exhaustion from his earlier coughing spell. “Your _plan_ was to poison the Cardinal, not me.”

He almost says _poison_ _Armand_, but doesn’t. Even disoriented and in pain, he’s better than that.

The sudden flash of delight on Vargas’ face is another unexpected thing. If Jean could afford to be honest with himself, he’d admit that these mercurial changes in mood are starting to scare him. At least, they’re doing little to help his unease.

“Precisely, my dear Captain. We had an agent ready to take his place, and provisions to ensure that he would make a quick and easy ascent within the Court. Except that, instead of the Cardinal, it was you who received the last dose. An unexpected setback, and not a slight one, if have to say so.”

_The last dose._ Jean is lucid enough to understand the implications of Vargas’ word choice all too well. This is not some improvised attempt. Then, again, the Spanish ambassador is no improviser, and only a well-planned scheme had any chance to get through to Armand anyway.

“It was meant to look like an accident,” he prompts, carefully exaggerating his surprise. He mostly wants to keep Vargas talking, to get to the actual question that’s burning at the back of his mind.

“One last attack of an incurable illness, to be exact. After all, everyone must know how sick the Cardinal is. It would not be surprising at all if something were to happen to him, would it.”

And again, Jean’s mind is sent reeling at the implications. That Armand’s illness, the thing that’s been sapping away his strength and dragging blood out of his lungs for the past months, might not have been natural after all. That Armand might in fact not be dying. He remembers the taste of blood and bile in his own mouth as the poison was taking effect, remembers the coughing.

“Of course, it’s one thing to receive one last dose of a… _treatment_ that has been going on for months, and another to be exposed to an entirely new substance. It was meant to be quite the peaceful death, you see – in bed, perhaps. We felt that would have been rather becoming. Your reaction to the poison was a lot faster, I’m afraid, and more violent.”

Vargas is smiling again, but Jean doesn’t care. He only sees an opportunity to ask the one question he can’t find the answer to.

“Then why am I alive?”

“Because,” Vargas answers, and Jean doesn’t think of himself as a man to be easily scared, but the Spaniard’s voice chills him to the bone, “if I’m not getting the Cardinal’s life out of this, the least we can aim for is some excellent leverage, and in light of recent events, it turns out you can provide just that. Now, it’s only a matter of how soon we can put it to use, and I’m sure you will help us find out.”

***

“How is he?” the Queen asks, and it’s testament enough to the gravity of the situation that she’s enquiring about the Cardinal’s health at all, with no apparent hidden purpose. Mindless of the political subtleties of the situation, or so at least it seems, King Louis lets himself flop down dramatically on his bed.

“Distraught. He keeps blaming it on headaches and ill health, but even I can see he looks better than he’s ever done in the past months. It’s like the Captain’s death brought him new energy, but he’s too – if I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s grieving for Treville.” He jerks his head a little, as if denying such an absurd thought.

The Queen coughs lightly, hiding her smile into a fine white handkerchief. “He did look awful at the funeral.”

“I wouldn’t know,” the King wails. “My own grief was having the better of me. What will I do without my two best advisors, Anne? My protectors?” He grips her hand convulsively, dragging it up to cover his own eyes. The Queen can feel moisture seeping through her fingers.

She knows her husband well enough to recognise that while the form of his reactions is staged, the substance is more than sincere. Louis feels adrift without Treville, and in truth, she does as well, bereft as she is of a loyal supporter, and in such an unexpected, worrisome way. That Treville should have fallen victim to an intrigue, and within the Cardinal’s own palace, without him seemingly having a hand in that…

Anne shivers. Dark times are looming ahead, and if the Cardinal is really out of commission as Louis has been suggesting, then she has to come up with a name, someone who can fill the power vacuum to her advantage, and fast.

***

For the seventh day in a row, Armand de Richelieu wakes up in a world where Captain Treville is dead. For the seventh time, he goes through that soul-crushing moment when he remembers who he is, where he is, and what has happened.

They buried him four days ago.

He is a man of God, so he fights the desire to stay in bed, curled up to protect his own shattered heart, by getting up and kneeling to say his morning prayers. Not for the first time, he’s grateful that there are formulae and texts that he can use, old comfortable Latin (_the kind that Jean could never get the hang of_) that feels well-worn on his lips. That way, he’s not required to direct his own words to God.

His own words to God would not be kind today, just like yesterday and the five days before that.

He has always believed in a merciful God. If that is true, He will understand. If that is true, if Richelieu repents, there may be a chance of Purgatory, and of seeing Jean again.

He shakes his head, forcing his aching joints to support him as he stands up. He knows Jean well enough to be sure that he won’t have repented at the last minute, last rites or no last rites. And Richelieu doesn’t even need to question God’s view of Jean’s actions in life to know that there was at least one sin they were both living in that was, without doubt, mortal.

He rubs his eyes. His head is aching already, but with a pain that is different from the agony of ill health that had plagued him for months before Jean’s death. Ironically enough, that seems to have lifted, replaced by a torment of unshed tears, his own traitorous body refusing to support him in grief just as it had in sickness.

He swallows down the feeling, just as he did with the tears last night. He refuses to cry himself to sleep. He refuses to cry, full stop.

He dons his red robes alone, after having sent the valet away. He’s trying to make his skin forget the feeling of Jean’s hands, as they those same robes before stripping him of them, his touch always so reverent. Before his tired eyes, the red of silk mingles with the darker red of blood dripping from Jean’s mouth as he died. He thinks about sinners in Hell wearing leaden robes that gleam golden on the outside, and surmises that hypocrisy is enough of a sin of his that being weighed down by his lover’s blood would be a fitting punishment.

Rather than laughing at himself for thinking he can be his own judge, he pushes through his chambers’ door to his study.

***

Looking back, Richelieu will have to recognise that the clearest proof of the harshness of his grief is the fact that it takes him so long to realise what is amiss. He’s rubbing tiredly at his temples later that day, chasing down the source of the headache that still hasn’t left him, when understanding finally dawns on him.

For a few minutes, he debates whether to call his physician. After all, if he’s right, there is no knowing who he can trust within his own household. Then, again, if he’s right – and he knows, down to his bones, that he is, and that’s where the frenzied energy that makes him stand up and pace the length of his study comes from –, there must be a reason the poison was in the food. The medicine he took twice a day would have been a much better, harder to detect solution, if whoever plotted this had been able to get access to that. Which leaves him with the knowledge that they didn’t, and even if he’s wrong, he trusts himself well enough to be sure that Lemay’s reactions will betray his involvement. His transparency, after all, was one of the reasons Richelieu hired him, along with a level of competence that had often made Jean joke that the King was going to steal Lemay from him sooner rather than later.

His conversation with the good doctor leaves him with little doubts on what happened. What _is_ happening. Still, the thing with conspiracies is that while it’s usually not that difficult to find out one is afoot, it’s always remarkably harder to uncover its true aims.

Part of him, the one that has abandoned all thoughts of politics and power a week ago, says it doesn’t matter. Knowing why Jean was poisoned won’t bring him back, but at least Richelieu will be able to get revenge.

It’s not, he thinks, his most Christian thought, but issues of morals and religion have rarely been so far away from his mind as they are now.

His next call is for Milady. As she enters his office through the secret passage, he can see her recoil just from seeing the fierce expression on his face. He cannot help but be pleased.

***

It’s been six days since Jean woke up – since he was buried, he assumes. At least, if his count isn’t off from passing out too many times at all hours of the day and night. He could, he supposes, have missed a sunrise or two.

It wouldn’t be that bad if it weren’t – okay, it would still be bad. But the worst part about this situation is knowing that it’s meant to be permanent. He’s not a hostage to be exchanged for money, knowledge or anything else. He’s a source of information, of leverage, and he knows Vargas well enough to understand that he won’t be let go anytime soon.

And, of course, there is the fact that, outside of this room that is starting to feel more and more like a circle of Hell, everyone believes him dead. So far, Vargas has been the only one to remind him of that, but he does make a point of mentioning it as frequently as possible. The rest of his tormentors have been frightfully silent, apart from the occasional grunt when Jean’s punishment requires an increased amount of physical exertion.

So far, he has been beaten, burned, flogged; he’s missing three toenails, and he suspects a couple of cracked ribs. Add to that the part where he’s tied to the bed any time he’s not being tortured, and all the indignities that come with that. The heaviest blows came when he tried to escape, on his second day of consciousness. If anything, Vargas has been very clear on how much he values _keeping_ Treville here.

He’s also been very clear on why that is the case. Perhaps it’s that, Jean muses, the thought that Vargas _knows_, that he can and will use him against Armand because of what he knows, that brings the most desperate fear welling up in Jean’s stomach.

There has been talk of moving him away from Paris, which at least tells Jean that he’s still in the city, or the suburbs. It also tells him that the time for another escape attempt is running out, that it will be so much harder to get out after he’s transferred to a more secure place.

This, Treville thinks, should prompt him to think of a new plan. It should make him feel bolder, should be a call to action like all the others he’s met throughout his life. Instead, it only muddles his thoughts further with panic.

It’s the helplessness, he thinks. He’s used to be the one coming to the rescue, not the one that’s caged and tied to a bed and unable to eat or drink or take a fucking piss without someone coming to his aid. It didn’t take long for Vargas to understand how much Jean hates that, and to take advantage of it. The memories still make Jean’s eyes burn with shame.

It’s not his fault. He clings to that thought, even if it won’t help him get out of here, even if it feels less real by the minute. He clings to the ever-present hatred towards his captors, spits in Vargas’ face even though that means immediate punishment, in the form of a gag of soiled cloth that Vargas likes to force through his teeth himself until he’s retching against his fingers. He knows that Vargas is doing his best to break him, to mould him into a tool he can use to bring Richelieu down, but the reminder that he can’t fight back is still less harsh than the thought of the danger he’s posing to Armand, to all of France, just by being alive.

Sometimes, at night, he prays for Armand to save him, and then he hates himself for wishing him to be put at such a risk.

***

Unravelling threads, Milady thinks, is something of a specialty of hers. She likes the textile metaphor, enjoys the way it draws back through millennia of women using weaving as a representation of power. She’s aware that she’s more of a Helen than a Penelope, of course, but that thought has stopped bothering her years ago.

Still, there are parts of this net of treachery that she would rather not have stumbled upon. As the picture in front of her eyes becomes clearer, as she ditches her informants to run back to the Palais-Cardinal and interrogate Lemay before she asks to speak with the Cardinal, she can’t suppress the fear that grips her. If what she’s learned is true, the implications are enough to put a lot more than herself in danger.

The change in Richelieu’s expression as she relays her finds is enough to confirm her every suspicion. She suppresses her own reaction, of course, taking great care not to let Richelieu understand that she knows exactly how he feels, and why. She would feel triumph at finally having a weapon she can hold over him, but this one is powerful enough that she knows that she’d only bring herself down if she ever tried to take advantage of it.

As it is, Vargas might have done just that to himself. By thinking he could use Treville to get at Richelieu, the master spy has ended a lot more than his career. Of all things she can get out of this, at least Milady can learn not to make the same mistake.

***

Milady has been cautious in her report. Even if Vargas’ plan was never to kill Richelieu, there is no direct evidence that Captain Treville should have survived a trap that was meant for someone who had acquired a higher tolerance to the poison. Lemay is cautiously optimistic, but Lemay can be a candid soul, especially when it comes to telling a beautiful woman exactly what she wants to hear.

Still, what they do have is evidence that someone is planning to move something out of Paris tonight, and that they’re taking a surprising amount of precautions for it to be a trivial matter. The only decision left to make is whether this is enough to make Richelieu risk letting Vargas know he’s on to him.

As the sun approaches the Western horizon and a course of action unravels in front of him, Richelieu thinks of the souls in Purgatory who are only able to progress further as long as the light of day is upon them. It’s a transparent metaphor if there ever was one, but still, he can’t help but feel that darkness will come to put a final stop to his plans, and that everything beyond that is in the hands of God.

Sunset finds him on his knees, praying. This time, the words are his own.

***

They drugged him before they got him into the carriage – some kind of laudanum-based concoction whose smell reminds him of the few times he got wounded badly enough he was given something for the pain. If his head were clearer, Treville would probably feel some trace of pride at the thought that they still fear he might try something, that despite everything they don’t think they’ve broken him yet.

As it stands, he can only feel wave after wave of fresh frustration and shame at being manhandled out of bed and into a moving vehicle, his head swimming, limbs loose and helpless. He knows that his chances at escaping will drop dramatically as soon as he gets out of Paris, and he still can’t do anything about it, can barely muster enough self-awareness to remember that he should be fighting back.

As the carriage moves, he slips into a state of semi-wakefulness where everything seems to happen through a fog, the regular motion of the wheels lulling him towards a sleep he knows he should try to resist, even if he doesn’t always quite remember why. He barely notices when the carriage lurches to an abrupt stop, but he does hear the driver’s strangled shout for help, the way it’s cut off and immediately followed by the familiar thump of a body falling to the ground.

Now there are sounds of fighting around him, people and weapons hitting the sides of the carriage. He struggles to sit up, and manages to drag himself as far as the door, leaning helplessly against it. Which, of course, means that as soon as someone wrenches it open he all but falls into their arms.

Underneath the predictable sweat, blood and filth, he’s hit by a distinctly feminine perfume. The voice that urges him to stand up and follow is unfamiliar and equally feminine. He thinks he hears Armand’s name, but the effort of putting down one foot after the other, trying not to lean too much of his weight on his rescuer, is clouding his mind.

He’s helped onto another carriage. He feels velvet seats under his hands, more smells, this time familiar. Could it really be –?

Someone puts a pillow under his head. It’s smooth, probably silk, red. He rubs his cheek against the rich material, almost starting to cry at how soft it feels. They’re moving again now, the unknown woman urging the driver on as they rush through the streets at a much faster pace than before. For some reason, he finds that reassuring, but he’s not lucid enough to realise that it means whoever is driving the carriage this time has no fear of being discovered.

They stop again, but this time no sounds of fighting are coming. Someone rushes to open the door, the woman slipping out ahead of him. There are arms around him, helping him out. A different smell. It’s only when he finds himself with his head resting against a chest clad in familiar black leather that he recognises it.

“Armand,” he says, his tongue thick in his mouth, and all of a sudden he’s aware that Armand is also speaking, brushing his mouth against his ear. It seems to be insults mixed with prayers, for the most part, and it’s the most beautiful sound Jean’s heard in a long time. He turns his head to nuzzle at Armand’s neck, letting him pet his hair.

In another situation, he might be embarrassed of being seen like this. Right now, all he can think of is _Armand_, and _safe_.

Reality blurs further after that. He knows he’s being undressed and bathed. At some point, someone checks him for injuries, reporting their findings aloud. Armand’s voice is still there in the background, sounding displeased. Jean wants to soothe him, pull him closer, but he’s too weak to speak, exhaustion catching up with him fast.

The last thing he remembers is a bed covered in soft, clean sheets, and a hand brushing his hair back from his forehead in a brief caress.

***

In the morning, Armand is not there.

***

The King cries. In front if everyone, he cries, and hugs Treville, kisses his hands, breaching every single provision of protocol to the visible consternation of everyone present. Jean has a feeling that it’s only his obvious exhaustion that stops Louis from promoting him to a marshal’s position right there on the spot.

Well, that and Armand’s presence.

As the scene unfolds, it’s hard to tell who is more aloof, Richelieu or the Queen. They’ve both voiced their happiness at Jean’s return, of course, their concern for his health and rightful indignation at whoever is responsible for his captivity. Rationally, Jean is aware that all these sentiments are sincere, that it’s only protocol that keeps them from expressing them properly. Still, while he knows that the Queen is often impeded by her own obligations, Armand has never before let the trappings of Court be an obstacle to him unless he wanted them to be.

He sighs, counting on it being interpreted as a sign of pain and exhaustion rather than anything else. He hasn’t seen or talked to Armand in private yet, and it feels like his very bones ache for his company. This morning, he woke up alone in a room at the Palais Cardinal, the closest sign of Armand’s care being the valet who showed up promptly to assist him. He still remembers the fresh shame in having to call him back after refusing his help and then learning that he was still in too much pain to bathe and dress on his own.

The memories of being touched in a very different way, by very different men are still there, but he managed not to scream or cry, and that, as much as he hates it, must be enough for now.

After that, he’s been led to the Louvre, only to find Armand already at the King’s side. He knows that’s where he belongs, of course, but he still wishes for the impossible, that Armand could be taking care of him instead, for once.

He almost scoffs at the mere thought that the Cardinal might neglect France for him. Luckily, it isn’t hard to mask his brief flash of amusement as a wince of pain.

When he turns his attention back to his surroundings, he’s surprised to find that the King’s focus has now shifted towards Armand himself. Louis seems to be taking a perverse pleasure in describing how distraught the Cardinal was after Treville’s death, how his heart seemed to grieve for one of France’s most valued servants.

It would be morbid in the best of situations. As it is, Jean feels a chill slowly stealing over his heart as he realises what all that means. _In light of recent events_, Vargas said, _it turns out you can provide excellent leverage._

***

As soon as they find themselves alone, Treville asks the one question that’s been pressing on his tongue for hours.

“Is Vargas dead?”

The answer is a shake of the head, and before Armand can start to explain, Jean is at his throat.

“He knew, Armand. He still knows. For all that time, I thought he’d discovered us because we had, because _I_ had been careless, I had made a mistake, and now I have to find out that it was because _you let him see it_.”

The trembling in Armand’s hands belies the steadiness of his voice. “Vargas knowing was the only reason he kept you alive.”

Treville’s voice drops to a growl. “You didn’t know that. You had _no idea_, and don’t play the all-powerful, all-knowing master schemer with me when we both know _you_ made a mistake. You put yourself in danger, you still are, you –”

“I _rescued you_!” Armand’s shout echoes through the room. “I got you out of there! Tell me, Captain, how long would it have taken for you to do the same if Vargas’ plan had gone through? Months? Years? If _you_ had believed me dead, how long would I have had to wait? What would have happened to France, to _me_, before you found me?”

He only catches a glimpse of the stricken expression on Jean’s face before he turns around and stalks away from where Armand is standing. Jean’s shoulders are shaking, he realises, and that more than anything prompts him to fall silent.

“You’re right,” Jean says, filling the pause that follows. His voice is still deep and gravelly, but the growl has gone out of it, replaced by an emptiness Armand doesn’t recognise. “I seem to have forgotten my place for a moment. You have my apologies.”

If Jean were simply angry, he would not apologise. Go cold and aloof, maybe, not speak to him for days, but never apologise.

Armand thinks back to the marks on Jean’s body when Lemay examined him the night before. He remembers Jean’s weight on him when he dragged him out of the carriage, the helpless little sounds he was making as he burrowed into Armand’s warmth.

_Helpless_ is not an adjective Armand has ever associated with his lover, and yet.

The renewed silence is broken only by the sounds of Armand’s increasingly ragged breathing. It’s only when that culminates into a strangled sob that Treville finally turns around. As soon as he feels Jean’s eyes on him, Armand breaks out of his forced immobility. He stalks back to his seat, behind his desk, picks up a quill with such force that the stem bends and creaks against his fingers.

“France will be at war with Spain before tomorrow night,” he says, in the cold voice of the statesman Jean knows so well. “I don’t care what Philip knew of Vargas’ plan, if at all. And neither will the King, once I’ve had my way with him.” He raises his eyes to look at Jean then. “Just give the word.”

“We’re not – we’re not ready for war,” is the only answer Jean can find. He can hear the disbelief plainly in his own voice.

“I have been planning this for years,” and yes, now the anger is audible in Richelieu’s words as well. “We may not be _ready_, but we’re still several steps ahead of the Spanish. And, most importantly –” his voice breaks on that, and that’s when Jean starts to move towards him, even before he hears what follows – “I do not care. If that is your wish, Captain, we are at war, now.”

Jean shakes his head. “I will not endanger my men. Hell, the fleet, the army, I won’t –”

“Then _what_ –” Richelieu hisses – “do you want me to do.”

What Jean hears is, _how do I fix this_.

He gives Armand one last, wide-eyed stare, before he drops down on one of the armchairs. “Come here,” he demands, rubbing his hands over his face.

Armand obeys. When he stops in front of the chair, Jean pats the armrest without even looking his way.

As soon as he sits there, Jean turns his head towards him, burying his face in Armand’s robes. He stays still for a moment, one arm loosely encircling Armand’s waist. Armand tries to force himself to sit still as well, not to start trembling again.

“You rescued me,” Jean finally says, his voice muffled by the fabric. “I’m grateful.”

He’s silenced by Armand sliding to his knees in front of him, his long hands coming to grasp at Jean’s thighs in a way that stirs a fire in his loins he didn’t think could be awoken, not so soon. He lifts Armand up, almost bodily, until he’s half draped over him, his mouth coming up to meet Jean’s, hands roaming and grasping feverishly at his shoulders, tugging at his hair. The kiss is messy, both of them scrambling for purchase, so obviously trying to reassure themselves of the other’s presence that Jean has to bite back a sob.

When they’re sated, he lets Armand slide back down to the floor, lets him open his fly and swallow him down and bring him close to climax, so close, until Jean hoists him up again and bends him over the chair and takes him, both of them coming after only a few thrusts and unwilling to pull apart until the discomfort and stickiness become too much. Jean is not surprised to find that he revels in being able to clean Armand and himself up, in the simple feeling of his muscles and tendons flexing freely as the soft cloth runs over sensitive skin.

As for Armand, he doesn’t seem willing to stop touching him. Jean, of course, is more than happy to let him have his fill. _Now and for as long as he wants_, he catches himself thinking, and for the first time in weeks, he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> [Here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ricciarelli) are the almond biscuits that feature prominently in this fic. They are delicious, and do not deserve this.
> 
> So, I'm still here. I don't have Tumblr, but you can find me here, and I will hopefully return to posting things intermittently. I know it sounds silly, but it's been a long couple of years. I've missed you all.


End file.
